


John Watson is Being an Idiot Yet Again

by Annamoor



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Johnlock - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-31
Updated: 2014-04-07
Packaged: 2018-01-17 16:16:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1394098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annamoor/pseuds/Annamoor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock become closer as they discover more about each other. From John's perspective. Heavy Johnlock</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is also posted on another fanfic site by me, so dont accuse either one of us (both are me) of plagiarism. just wanna get my work out there:) please review and comment

October 17th, 2011  
“So what can you deduce, John?” asked Sherlock.

“I’m not about to humiliate myself while you’re obviously countless steps ahead of me, intellectually.” John was angering. 

“Your opinion has always mattered to me. Quite important, actually.” Sherlock always knew how to lighten John’s mood, although sometimes he seemed to only make it worse.  
He accomplished the former. John’s eyes softened; he cleared his throat and gave Sherlock a curt nod. 

“Alright, so right back to it.” Sherlock could never stay focused on something other than the case at hand for long. “What do you see?”

“Well,” John began, “He is obviously mentally impaired judging from his, erm, location.” He gave Sherlock a sideways glance. He returned John’s with an equally questioning look. “From the continuous injuring and scarring of his wrists, I’d say he often strained against his restraints. Post-traumatic stress disorder? Schizophrenia? The list could be quite long but I have no idea of his history. But there was obviously some defining factor as to why he was here.”

“Obviously.” Sherlock could be such a complete arse. “But yes, you are right. There’s something we’re not seeing. Let’s start from the bare details. He is found dead in solitary confinement, in this asylum. No breach in security, nothing on the cameras.” 

He pressed the pads of his fingers together to form a steeple under his lips. John thought to himself about how he could watch this man think for hours. He was like a hunter stalking his prey. Except the prey wasn’t anything tangible. He was searching every nook and cranny of his expansive intellect for any and every answer to this mystery. 

John realized what was running through his mind and quickly pushed it down. What are you doing Watson? Now and again he would catch himself thinking these strange thoughts about Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson’s (and frankly everyone’s) assumptions about Sherlock and himself were starting to mess with his brain. If you haven’t forgotten, he thought to himself, you’re straight and not whatsoever involved with Sherlock Holmes. The brain can be such a faulty piece of machinery. He sighed.

“I’ve got it!” shouted Sherlock, without noticing John’s brief deviation of thought. “It was a suicide. Obvious, oh OBVIOUS!” His sudden outburst made John flinch. “He must’ve had someone working on the inside for him. Persuaded him to somehow get a knife to him to stab himself with. Then came in later to remove the weapon. Deleted the video data and replaced it with some sort of looped clip of this inmate sleeping. But the most brilliantly delicious question of all is why. Why would a guard succumb to the pleading of a mentally insane asylum inmate? Oh it’s just BRILLIANT!” Sherlock was on a roll. 

Suddenly, a security guard burst through the door, “What are you two doing in here! Are you with the police? Press? Just get out of here before I have you arrested for trespassing!”  
“Come on Sherlock, we’ll come back with a warrant tomorrow.” John rubbed his eyes tiredly and followed Sherlock out of the cell. 

The pair caught a cab back to Baker Street and climbed the steps up to their flat. They flopped into their armchairs, opposite from one another. 

“So I’ll phone Lestrade and see-“

“Sherlock, can we just relax for tonight? It’s been a long day. Let’s just watch some telly. Cuppa?”

“Yes, thanks.” Sherlock replied. John got up and headed to the kitchen to boil the water for the tea. He grabbed some biscuits from the cupboard and arranged them on a plate. He brought the snack into the other room to see that his partner had relocated to the couch.

John placed the tray on the table and sat down next to Sherlock. 

Hours passed and the two tired detectives started drifting off to sleep. 

John felt his head drifting down and felt himself rest on Sherlock’s shoulder. He didn’t even mind as he was too tired. 

They both awoke the next morning with a shout from Lestrade. John looked up to find Sherlock’s arm around his back and John’s arm hugging his friend’s midsection. John was resting his head on his shoulder with Sherlock’s head on John’s. He had been almost snuggling up to Sherlock’s neck when he awoke. John sprang away from Sherlock’s embrace with a slight blush on his cheeks. Sherlock’s lips curled up into a sly grin. 

“What a nice snuggle,” Sherlock said with a widening of the grin John knew so well and loved so much.

John cleared his throat softly and replied rather sheepishly, “Yes, it was, wasn’t it.”

Lestrade burst into their little confusing world, “Are you two coming out of your little cuddle session any time soon? Are you going to finish this case any time soon?”  
“Yes, keep your trousers on, Lestrade,” Sherlock waved him off. 

“I’ll be waiting in the car downstairs, hurry up!” Lestrade was down the stairs. 

December 22nd, 2011

“So are we doing this whole Christmas thing, Sherlock?” John asked him. They were sitting in their usual armchairs, just watching telly. “Presents and all?” 

“Why not, we’ve been practically dating for years now,” Sherlock agreed. 

John looked at Sherlock from under his eyelids. Sherlock looked back and with a slight smile turned back to the screen. Did he mean anything by that? Does he have feelings? Oh shut up Watson, you insufferable child. You overthink everything. He’s right, we do almost everything together. Best friends. John gave himself a curt nod and refocused on the tv.

“Would you want to come visit my parents with me for the holidays?” John asked tentatively.

With a slight pause, he answered. “Sure John, sounds lovely!” John detected forced enthusiasm.

“If you don’t want to go, it’s perfectly fine! It’s not like you’re obligated to join me.” Did John wish he was?

“John, I’m happy to go. Leaving tomorrow I deduce from the clothes laid out on your bed.”

“Yes and you’d best pack too. Flight leaves early.”

December 23rd, 2011

John and Sherlock boarded the plane uneventfully. The dreadfully early hour had both of them nodding off to sleep soon enough. Once again, John felt himself dropping onto Sherlock’s shoulder. It’s actually a perfect height for my head, John noticed to himself. Quite comfortable. John fell asleep with a small, absentminded smile running across his face.

John woke up with the side of Sherlock’s face resting on his sandy blond hair. He didn’t move as to not wake him up. John took a moment to breathe in his cologne. Radiating from his neck, the seductive scent made John want to stay here with this man for as long as possible. Without meaning to, John reached up to nuzzle into Sherlock’s collar and neck. He stayed there for a few minutes, memorizing the smell of the vulnerable, sleeping man. 

The pilot then announced that they would be landing soon, and to fasten their seatbelts for the arrival. Sherlock awoke at the sound and John shut his eyes, pretending to be asleep. He wasn’t ready to get up just yet. How often does this opportunity come around? John tried not to question exactly what he was doing and instead put his thoughts back into the moment. 

Suddenly, Sherlock reached a hand up to John’s face and brushed his hair back from his forehead, being careful not to “wake” him. Sherlock’s fingertips trailed down John’s hairline. John could not help being overcome with the chills that rippled down his spine. Sherlock dropped his hand and, at that, John feigned awakening.

“Are we here?” John pretended to sound sleepy and disoriented.

“Almost,” Sherlock replied. “We’re about to land.”

John hoped Sherlock couldn’t detect the lie in his actions.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sherlock meets the fam!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delay! my writing usually happens after midnight, which is tough on me as a high school student so...  
> but im trying! haha. hope you enjoy! reviews pleease

The pair soon exited the plane. They walked out of the terminal, John shielding his eyes from the sun. Sherlock hailed a cab and they directed the cabbie to the Watson house.

John's mother greeted them at the door. "Ah, John! And you must be Mr. Holmes!"

"Just Sherlock, please." He replied. "It's very nice to meet you," He said with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. Was Sherlock being polite? Sherlock Holmes?

"Welcome to Watson Manor!" John's mother brought them inside. It was anything but. The outside of the house looked small and cozy, and the inside was even cozier. There was clutter, but not in a way that made it look dirty and overcrowded, but homey and welcoming.

John's sister Harriet came down the stairs to greet the pair. "Hey, Johnny!" She threw her arms around him in a bear hug. "I missed you! You must come and visit us more often!"

"I'll try Harry, but Sherlock keeps himself and I busy with all these cases. Being a world renowned consulting detective, and all." John looked at Sherlock with a burst of pride. Sherlock was a world famous and highly sought after person of interest. He so happened to pick John as the one person in the world to spend his time with. John honestly couldn't be happier to spend his life with Sherlock. Well maybe not spend my life with him… Or would I? John couldn't even begin to grasp how he felt about Sherlock. He was starting to notice that his feelings towards Sherlock could never be deemed as best friend feelings and… urges.

John shoved all these confusing thoughts back down from whence they came and reentered the conversation.

"So as you can see," Mrs. Watson was saying, "this house isn't exactly one with a lot of extra space, so it seems you two will have to share a room and also a bed. Is that a problem? I assumed it wouldn't be too much trouble as you share a flat already."

"Don't worry mum," John reassured her. "We'll be perfectly fine. The nights can get cold out here anyway and we'll be glad to share the warmth." What are you talking about Watson? Pull yourself together! And that sounded utterly ridiculous. Share the warmth?! Do yourself a favor and shut the fuck up.

"Well I'll let you boys get unpacked and then we'll reconvene in the kitchen. I thought we could go for a picnic for lunch," suggested John's mother.

"That sounds lovely mum. We'll be down in a few."

John and Sherlock climbed the steps to their bedroom for the next few days.

It was small, cozy. A queen bed with a desk and a bookshelf pressed up against the wall. The grey sunlight was coming in through a window adjacent to the bed. The canary yellow walls were a bit optimistic for the beautifully bleak moors of the English countryside. They set down their suitcases and began unpacking.

Sherlock was eerily quiet. John knew that there were days that Sherlock wouldn't speak a word. But there were also days when Sherlock couldn't stop talking. He would spew factoids and crave cigarettes and pace about the flat. This was one of those days, but not of the aforementioned intensity. John knew as his mouth was usually running, his brain was running now at full speed. What is going through that great big head of his?

"You ok, Sherlock?" John asked hesitantly.

"What? Oh yeah, I'm fine." Sherlock brushed off his slightly concerned tone with a remark of nonchalance.

John shrugged and turned back to his suitcase.

When the partners were done with their luggage, they met Mrs. Watson in the kitchen for the departure to their picnic.

"You boys all ready to go?" John's Mum sounded excited.

"Yeah mum let's go!" John answered for Sherlock as well.

John, Sherlock, Mrs. Watson, and Harry drove to the opening of a trail that supposedly led to a lake.

John and Sherlock took turns carrying the basket containing the food, drink, utensils, and blanket.

As they trekked through the dense shrubbery that only grows on rocky English beaches, Sherlock and the Watsons talked about John and Sherlock's life in London.

"So you fellas just lounge around in your flat watching telly, and solve a case every once in a while?" asked Harry, skeptically.

"Well not exactly, Harry," Sherlock chimed in. "We are often busy with cases, thank god, because I'm what you would call well known in these parts. People often come to me with rather uninterestingly easy cases for me to solve. Missing pets, cheating husbands and all that. The good ones are when Lestrade comes to me with a nice murder, especially a serial killer. Those are always the most interesting. Any connected crime is quite fun! It keeps me occupied. It's not always the best to be wishing for murder. Especially in public, I've noticed…"

Sherlock trailed off as he noticed the three Watsons staring at him, mouths open.

"Was it something I said?" Sherlock mumbled.

"Let's go Sherlock. Come one." John pulled his shoulder to turn him away from John's family and the two of them continued down the path, slightly ahead and out of earshot of Harry and Mrs. Watson.

"They officially think you're crazy Sherlock!" John started giggling like a child and Sherlock wasn't far behind.

"I really impressed them, didn't I?" remarked Sherlock.

"You did a lot more than impress them, Sher." John added the nickname as an absentminded afterthought. Sher?! What the fuck? There has got to be something seriously wrong with you, Watson. The doctor shook his head at his internal self. Sherlock just happened to see.

"I don't mind the nickname, even if it was an accident." Sherlock gave him a sideways, almost knowing grin. "But see the dilemma is that your name is already one syllable and therefore impossible to shorten. Agh, the dramas of life." John detected an edge of over dramatization of the last line.

"Go fong yourself, Sher!"

John dropped the food basket he was carrying (gently) and ran over the last ridge to get a clear view of the lake.


End file.
